


Another Way to Eat

by Esmethewitch



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Polly/Mal, Experienced/Inexperienced, F/F, Humor, I know it's a crack pairing but bear with me, Lingerie, Loss of Virginity, Maladict backstory, Maladict is the vampire equivalent of 18, Mommy Issues, Nanny Ogg is somewhere in her twenties, One Night Stands, Relationship Discussions, Sexual Education from Trashy Romance Novels, The Hedgehog Song, Tropes, angsty teenager Maladict, set about 60 yrs before canon, sexual awakening, smut arrives in chapter 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 13:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esmethewitch/pseuds/Esmethewitch
Summary: One dark and stormy night, Maladicta receives an unexpected but very welcome visitor who gives her a lot to think about. Who leaves her sexually frustrated and lonely.





	1. A Dark and Stormy Night

**Author's Note:**

> This fic combines 2 things that are hard for me to write: Nanny Ogg's voice and femslash. I am trying to challenge myself with this.

It was a dark and stormy night. Then again, all nights were dark and storms were frequent in the hills outside Plün. Rain battered the canopy of the forest like an army’s worth of crossbow bolts. Flashes of lightning illuminated the castle that brooded atop a hill. It was built long ago, and the only light from this edifice was that of a lamp in one tower window.

A girl sat at a table in front of the one lit window, drumming her fingers restlessly against the wood. She was slim and dark-haired, with skin as pale as porcelain. She wore a red dress with a tightly laced corset (she was planning to cut the stays and tell her mother it made her faint, never mind that her kind didn’t have blood circulation in the first place), as well as a black cloak. She wasn’t too sure about the dress, a garment whose plunging neckline exposed such breasts as she had. The underwires were poky. She adjusted the cloak to cover her attempt at cleavage.

She idly flicked through the pages of the lurid romance novel she stole from under her mother’s bed and sipped from her cup of tea. Though she’d brewed it by pouring hot tea over fresh leaves, hopefully increasing the caffeine content by doubling the concentration of bitter brown stuff, the beverage wasn’t quite what she needed.

The young woman tried to focus once more on the novel, trying not to consider the implications of reading pornographic content acquired by her _mother._ Her mother who told her it was time she started trying to fend for herself. That she couldn’t keep coddling her squeamish daughter, coaxing her into drinking cups of the sticky red liquid that Maladicta should have been able to get for herself by now. That was the reason Maladicta was sitting up alone tonight. Her mother had gone to Uberwald to visit an old friend for a fortnight. And taken Igor with her, Maladicta’s only real ally here. Igor would have normally taken her down to the cowshed, and guided her shaking fingers as she gently nicked a milk cow’s jugular artery, letting the bl...no, the stuff spill into a glass. That was better than what her mother made her drink, though not quite as nutritious. She still hated it.

But she couldn’t do that for a fortnight. Her mother had left her, and her only companion was Mrs. Waldrip the housekeeper, a stolid women that she could not charm. Maladicta’s mother had told Mrs. Waldrip in no uncertain terms that her daughter should not set foot in the stables while she was away.

“Why are you doing this, mother?” Maladicta looked up at her mother, a vampire who seemed not a day over thirty to an ordinary human observer. But Maladicta could see the years the older vampire wore. Her face was more lined than her daughter's, her eyes colder and darker. “I know I’m a bit of a burden, but I’ll work it out soon…”

Maladicta’s mother sighed. “You aren’t a burden. You are my daughter. I’m disappointed because I know you are capable of better. You are smart, you have centuries ahead of you, but you are too scared. The only obstacles between you and control of a proper town or village are inside your head. You can get over them. You just need to fend for yourself for a while.” Maladicta inspected the floor, and nodded.

“Right. Yeah. I can do that, Mother.”

“What is this _Yeah_ I hear?”

Maladicta cringed. Nuggan, her mother was old. “It means ‘yes’, Mother. People say it.”

“It’s not proper. I don’t want to hear it coming from your mouth in the future.”

“Yes, Mother.”

This woman obsessed with what was proper and what was not possessed a romance novel that was one of the filthiest things Maladicta had ever seen, even in her tortured virginal imagination. Maladicta’s eyes widened as the improbably muscular hero and the bland heroine did disgusting but...interesting things to each other. The descriptions of oiled muscles and manly strength weren’t doing it for her, though. Like her cup of extra strong tea, she knew that this was just an approximation of something better, something she hadn’t found yet.

She tried to descend into the smutty novel, use the printed words to drown out everything her extra-sensitive ears picked up. She could hear the rain, the wind in the trees, the rustling of mice going about their business in the walls, knocking at the door…

Knocking at the door? She hurried down the stairs, and listened in the entryway. Yes, there was definitely something rapping on the thick oak planks of the door. She flinched. Her mother had given her thorough instruction in what to do next. She just didn’t want to do it.

Then, a new voice cut through her shame and indecision. “Boney fiday traveler! Open up!”

Maladicta hurried to the door, and unbolted it. She pulled on the iron ring. It didn’t creak quite as much as it did when Igor opened it, but it would do. On the other side of the door was a young woman in a sopping wet black off-shoulder dress, clutching a bundle of kindling and a bag. She scurried in.

“Cooee! Thanks for letting me in out of that, it was pissing out there.” Maladicta’s guest was beautiful. The wet black fabric (much too thin for this time of year) clung to the curves of her hips, and two pert nipples stood out on her ample chest. She must be cold. Goose pimples rose from the woman’s exposed shoulders.

“It’s fine,” said Maladicta, transfixed. Her guest’s hair was brown and wavy, and when she smiled, a gap between her two front teeth was visible. Though that could be called a flaw, it was lovely on her.

“I can get you a towel and something dry to change into, if you want,” she offered. _And maybe you’ll change in front of me. No, that sounds creepy._

The woman grinned and stuck out a hand. “That would be a treat. I’m Gytha Ogg, by the way. Thanks for letting me into your castle. None of the other folks round here are too friendly.”

Maladicta shook it. “Maladicta. Yes, people in these regions are a little wary of strangers. Sometimes for good reason.” She didn’t mention that this wasn’t her castle, strictly speaking. Mrs. Waldrip materialized from nowhere, grey hair and grey dress giving her the appearance of a ghost in the dim light.

“My lady, I did not think we were receiving a visitor. Shall I ready the guest bedroom?”

Maladicta nodded. “Yes, please do, Mrs. Waldrip. It is not a good night for anyone to be out.”

“I won’t be needing it for a while, though,” Gytha said. “I ain’t properly tired yet. There’s something about walking through a forest during a thunderstorm that wakes you up.” Mrs. Waldrip took in the puddles forming around Gytha.

“Perhaps I could get you something to change into, Miss?”

“No,” Maladicta blurted. “I--I can do that while you prepare the guest bedroom, Mrs. Waldrip.”

The old housekeeper looked from Maladicta to Gytha, and back again. She surely knew what her charge was supposed to do tonight. She turned on her heel and marched up the stairs.

“A housekeeper, huh?”

“My mother employs her. She is gone in Uberwald for a fortnight.” Why did she tell this woman that? It made her sound even more like a child. “If you want to come to my room, I can find something dry for you to wear.”  
“Do I get to see your boodwah?” Gytha’s eyebrows raised and she was grinning like a happy jack-o’lantern.

“My what?”

“Your room with fancy underwired lace clothes and things.”

Maladicta sighed. “If it were up to me, I’d burn all the corsets and invest in some nice simple cotton. But it’s not. I think I can find something suitable for you to wear while your dress dries out, though.”

Together, they walked up the twisting spiral staircase. Maladicta knew that the housekeeper was old and wise enough to put two and two together. Young woman caught in a storm seeking shelter at _this_ castle? Her Ladyship had likely told Mrs. Waldrip that Maladicta needed to become more “self-sufficient’. There was no doubt what that meant. She stopped to listen for a second or two, and heard the housekeeper’s footsteps retreating. Good. Thank all the gods she didn’t believe in that Mrs. Waldrip valued self-preservation too highly to verify that Maladicta did what was required of her.

They entered her room. The bed was too big for one person, with four posts draped in crimson velvet. The curtains were also red, and billowed despite the closed window. Igor said that they were specially charmed by a wizard to do that. She told herself each morning that she’d change the decor. The sea of rippling red cloth reminded her of her dependency. A fire burned low in her grate. Maladicta was always cold. Her mother said it was because she didn’t ever feed properly. Never mind that they lived in a drafty old castle.

Gytha looked around, eyeing the mountain of pillows beneath the canopy. “That’s quite the bed.”

“Thank you, I suppose.” Maladicta flung open her closet door, and tossed out a towel. She rummaged through the rows of impractical dresses to find something that would fit her visitor. This would be harder than she thought. Gytha was voluptuous. Maladicta was skinny as a wooden stake. She settled on a negligee that was baggy on her. It would barely cover Gytha. _Not that this would be a bad thing_.

She turned to the other woman, who was standing in front of the fire in nothing but a towel. As Maladicta turned towards her, she let it slip several inches, giving the vampire a good view of her full breasts. Gytha winked. Maladicta blushed.

“H-here,” Maladicta said, thrusting the garment forward. She turned away. Yes, she should drink this woman’s blood tonight, but she didn’t want to be a creep.

When she turned back, Gytha had changed. The dressing gown that drowned Maladicta’s body in waves of frothy white lace was incredible on Gytha’s full figure. Maladicta swallowed, hard. Lace roses stretched across the older woman’s generous bosom, giving a tantalizing view of what lay beneath. The gown’s hemline barely covered her strong, broad thighs. Through the thin lace, she could see a veiled outline of pink curves. Though Maladicta may have already lived for more years than this lovely stranger ever would, this was the first time she had ever seen another woman in such a state of undress. Or person, for that matter. Vampires lived longer than humans, but they lived more slowly.

“This is nice and posh,” said Gytha. “It’s pretty. But don’t you get cold if you’re only wearing this little thing to bed?”

“Ngggh,” Maladicta replied, her face reddening. She felt an odd, achey tension between her legs. Normally, she knew this sensation as a manifestation of stress before bed and made herself forget about it by rubbing a couple of fingers over her slick folds until she gasped, and it went away. She’d never associated it with another person before. In the book she’d stolen from her mother (titled _The Sworde of Passion_ ), the hero made the heroine “come undone” by exploring her nether regions with his fingers and then licking the area. These actions sounded as ridiculous as the rather contrived shipwreck that brought the protagonists together, unharmed, on a perfectly habitable but deserted tropical island, but now Maladicta felt the sudden desire to try them. With somebody more interesting than the one-dimensional fictional love interest, of course.

Her ancestors all loved buxom women in skimpy lace who weren’t afraid to stop at lonely castles, their hair and the pale fabric flowing in the wind. Maladicta was closer to the opera-cloaked men immortalized in dingy old oil paintings that hung in the Great Hall than she would ever admit to herself. She wondered if Gytha would mind standing in front of an open window. Or going for a moonlit walk with her. She banished these horribly soppy thoughts.The longer she waited, the more painful this would be for her. She would try to be gentle.

Maladicta lunged at Gytha Ogg in one fluid motion, trapping the woman in her arms and locking her lips onto the tender skin of her neck.


	2. Tastes

The human woman’s pulse thrummed under her tongue. For a few exquisite seconds, she gently leaned into the tentative, wet embrace of Maladicta’s mouth. Then, it was over.

Gytha pulled away, her pupils dilated and her breath heavy. “Wait. I ain’t complaining, but we haven’t talked about this.”

“Talked about what?” _I tried to drink her blood. I am a vampire. She is human. What more is there to say?_

“What we’re doing tonight. How things will go tomorrow morning. See, I like spending the night with someone, but I will have you know that I’m traveling. I have to pass over the mountain range here and get to Slice before next week. And then to Lancre after that. Borogravia’s a real nice forrin place, but I need to go home. So whatever we’re doing will only be for a night. If you want something more long-term than that, we need to stop now. I’m not in the business of breaking hearts.” Gytha winked. “But we can have fun with other bits of anatomy, if you like.”

“I can do anatomy,” Maladicta said. It was true. Igor let her read some of his books on the subject. In practical terms, she was skilled at locating the jugular vein. It was surprising that Gytha didn’t accuse her of trying to drink her blood. But she didn’t want to. When she tried to sink her fangs into Gytha’s neck, she was not thinking about food. In the next second, her tongue got away from her. “But how will it work?”

Gytha grinned, and flipped part of her luxurious hair back over one shoulder. “Well, you tell me what you like, I’ll tell you what I’m amenable to, and then we’ll spend some time in that nice big bed of yours.”

Maladict was blushing again. “But we’re both...both women, we don’t have…”

Something in Gytha’s expression softened, and she put an arm on Maladicta’s shoulder. “You’ve never been with a woman before?”

“No, never.” She didn’t add that she’d never been with a man, either. “I want to try, though. If we can.”

Gytha chuckled. “Sometimes it’s better than being with a man. Depends on the woman. Depends on the man. Some men, they’ve got right good equipment, but they wouldn’t know how to use any of it on a woman if you gave them a map.”

This gave Maladicta pause. The vacuous heroine of her purloined smut novel only reclined as her male counterpart “slid into her”, an activity that “lit all the fires of ecstacy within her core.” The experience sounded painful. She’d put fingers up there out of curiosity and found it dull. Where was her core supposed to be, anyway? The regions around her opening were much more exciting.

“So, what do we do?”

“It’s easier if we take off our clothes.”

“I knew _that.”_

“See, you know more than you think. Use your imagination. What do you do when you’re alone?”

“Um...I read sometimes?”

Gytha sighed. “I meant when you’re...making your own entertainment, if you get my drift.”

“Sometimes I pretend I’m a knight on a quest, but it’s silly, don’t tell anyone…” Oh cruel, capricious Nuggan, this woman was making an idiot of her. Surely Gytha would laugh at her confusion and go back into the stormy night that brought her to this castle rather than suffer such a fool as Maladicta.

Vampires were supposed to be experienced but aloof lovers, well acquainted with the art of passion but not weak enough to let the flesh hold any sway over them. No, that teasing and control was to be used on other people. She never wondered how anyone got experienced in the first place.

But instead, Gytha put it into plain language. “What do you like when you touch yourself?”

“Oh! I sort of circle round, and then I rub the bump in front with two fingers until I...feel sort of weird, but good, you know? I think the bit in front is called the Pearl of Passion.”

“You rub your clit until you come?”

“...Is that what it’s called?”

Gytha giggled. “Yes. You’ll only have people calling it a pearl in a dirty novel.”

Maladicta decided that this was her chance to attempt to take back any control she may have had of this situation. “What if I want to call it a pearl?”

The human snorted. “I’d like to see you try.”

She took a deep breath. “Roll my pearl between your fingers, keep me at your mercy as you toy with the petals of my womanhood, until I succumb to your touch and come undone.” And she could picture it, her body writhing from the efforts of the other woman’s plump little fingers, cries wrung out of her by careful motions. Wetness oozed out of her, and she shifted uneasily.

Gytha laughed. “That sounds like a line from a trashy novel.”

In truth, it was mostly plagiarized from _The Sworde of Passion,_ but Gytha didn’t have to know that. Maladicta glared, but without rancor.

“I think you’re better off trying things before you start talkin’ about them.”  
Gytha was right. Maladicta began unbuttoning her dress. But her prospective tutor and deflowerer raised a finger. “Wait. I ain’t eaten anything since this morning, and I’m thirsty too. How about we have some dinner before we get to that?”

Oh, right. Humans were different. So vulnerable. Did Maladicta even have anything on hand that she could eat? Mrs. Waldrip had her own larder in the kitchen, but she was loathe to chance bumping into her while wet, aching, and confused. She had vague ideas of what might happen next with Gytha, but the specifics eluded her. Could they make each other...go at the same time, or would they have to take turns? No, the word was “come”; the implications of “go” in this context were rather unfortunate. “I’ll have to look for something…”, she began.

“Thanks, but I’ve brought my own food. And drink, too.” Gytha picked up her damp bundle, and unwrapped a loaf of bread in greased paper. After a brief rummage, she produced a tiny bottle. “Want any?”

Maladicta had tried bread before. It was an experience; the dry mass took forever to chew, and she’d nearly choked before realizing that you were supposed to swallow this lump of sawdust-like substance moistened only by your own saliva. “No thank you. I’ve already eaten.”

Gytha shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s fancy stuff with bits of rosemary in. I like it with a bit of garlic on top, but I couldn’t find any in these parts.”

 _So she still didn’t know._  
“I think garlic is overrated,” Maladicta replied.

“We can agree to disagree,” said Gytha. She made short work of half of the loaf, and took a hearty swig of the bottle. “Want some of the drink? It’s a cold night, it’ll warm you up.”

Warming up sounded good. But what was in it? “What kind of drink have you got?”

“Scumble. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

Maladicta frowned. “I like my chest as it is, thank you.”

“Figure of speech. I don’t think it actually makes you grow more hairs. Then again, I’ve been drinking this for a few years, and I haven’t gone bald yet.” This was intriguing.

“What’s it made out of?”, she asked. Wine came from grapes, she knew, and beer from grain.

“Apples. Well, mostly apples.”

Fruit was supposed to be healthy, wasn’t it? “I’ll try it.”

Gytha passed her the bottle, and Maladicta took a gulp. She coughed, the liquid scorching her throat and landing like a leaden anvil in her stomach. She gasped. There was a fruity aftertaste. But she didn’t feel bad, just odd. She took another sip. Much better than blood. Then, most things were.

“Might want to ease up on that,” Gytha cautioned. “If you still want to have fun in bed later, you want your wits about you.”

Maladicta nodded assent. Gytha took a couple more sips. “I think a night like tonight is good for singing,” she announced.

“What are you going to sing?”

Gytha took another pull of Scumble, cleared her throat, and began. Maladicta’s jaw dropped as Gytha’s powerful voice sang ridiculous nonsense. _How many verses are there of this?_

“...and maybe a snail, if you slow to a crawl…”

“Stop!”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“Why would anyone want to bother a hedgehog? They keep to themselves.”

“Oh. Well, there’s a funny thing about this song, a real double-intender. See, ‘buggered’ can also mean taking it up the arse.”

“What’s ‘it’?”

Gytha told her.

“But why would anyone do that to a hedgehog? That’s cruelty to animals. And it would hurt.”

“That’s the point. You don’t.”

Maladicta huffed. “But why does there have to be a song about it?”

“Why not?”

“I think criticising my dirty talk was a bit rich of you, considering that this song was so silly.”

Gytha snickered. “I don’t think you were trying to be silly when you said that earlier. I think you meant it.”

“Yeah. I did.”

Her visitor’s smile grew wider. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you a good time. Provided you come up with better ways to describe it, after.”

“Okay.” Maladicta unbuttoned her dress. This time, Gytha didn’t stop her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this got longer than I intended it to. I like making these two talk. I know Maladict is kind of OOC right now, but I promise she will be more of the Mal we know and love later on.


	3. Complicated Underwear

Sadly, after unbuttoning her gown and leaving it in a crumpled ball on the floor, Maladicta was not naked. Instead, the stiff bones of her corset locked away her chemise and ankle-length drawers. If Mrs. Waldrip had been watching Maladicta as closely as Mother wanted her to, she would have worn a petticoat over the corset. Even though Maladicta believed that evening dress should be composed of sleek planes of dark fabric clinging tight to the wearer, and that frilly petticoats had no place in it. __  
Gytha watched Maladicta undress with a smile on her face. “And there’s more! I guess I get a show tonight.”

Maladicta yanked at a recalcitrant lace and swore. Why were corsets so hard to unlace? When she got desperate, she disincorporated into a swarm of bats and reappeared naked. Though this condition specific to female vampires was considered an inconvenience, Maladicta firmly believed it was the best way to wriggle free from the trap of corsetry. True, she didn’t know how to unlace a corset, but if she ever desired to do so, she could learn. It was a shame that such a display would make her lover for tonight run away, and with her would go Maladicta’s chance at losing her virginity.

“This would go faster if you helped me,” she said. “If you’re just going to sit there, you might see my knees in half an hour, if you’re lucky.”

“I’ll help you, Maladicta. Hey, do you mind if I shorten it to Mal?” Gytha gently wrapped her arms around Maladicta’s artificially slim waist, kissed her neck, and slid one hand downward. “If there’s something you don’t like, tell me and I’ll stop, okay?”

Maladicta gasped at this new motion, then spread her legs slightly and pushed against Gytha’s hand. “Why do you want to shorten my name?” Gytha would only be here for a night, so whatever moniker the other woman used for her would be temporary.

“ ‘Maladicta’ is a mouthful to moan. And by the time I teach you a thing or two, I expect I’ll be screaming some variation of your name a lot.”

Gytha cupped her mound through the drawers and massaged it like she was gently kneading bread. A delicious tension was slowly building inside her. “You can call me Mal. I don’t mind. I don’t mind what you’re doing right now eith---aah, yes!” Maladicta felt those fingers push down around her, feeling the lips of her entrance through the layers of fabric. They migrated away from her Pearl of Pass--no, her clit, she had to remember that, and teased lazy circles around her entrance. Just when Maladicta grew accustomed to the motions, Gytha changed her tactics and roughly ground the palm of her hand into her, pausing to pinch at her outer folds. And then, when Maladicta thought she might cry out because it was all so much, all movement stopped.

“Alright, there?” Gytha’s hair frizzed about her, and her eyes were wide with lust. Yet she lowered her eyebrows in concern. “I won’t be offended if you need a break, it can be too much at once if it’s your first ti--”

“Why have we stopped?” Maladicta all but growled. Well, she tried to growl. Or sound “sultry”, whatever that was supposed to be. It came out as a whimper. “P-please, it was good…”

Gytha removed that talented hand from Maladicta’s crotch and got to work unlacing the corset. “You said earlier that it’s better if we take off our clothes. You were right.” Off came the corset, and Maladicta luxuriated in the deep breaths she was now free to take. Only the itchy lace chemise and long baggy drawers stood between her and torrid debauchery. She peeled off the chemise, freeing her sad pair of breasts.

“Oh, these are beautiful,” Gytha breathed, and let a finger glide over the bumpy ring of skin that sat below her right nipple. There was a word for that, Maladicta knew. Aero Lay? Or maybe “pebbling breast, flush with ardour”, though that was another phrase from _The Sworde of Passion._

Maladicta shrank back under Gytha’s touch. “You don’t have to flatter me, Gytha. I know they’re not anything special.”

“Nothing special?” Gytha reached for Maladicta’s other nipple, and lightly squeezed. She jerked forward in response to the pinch. Once, when she was much younger, she’d opened one of Igor’s jars of lightning by mistake. Blue, cruel little bolts of electricity arced through her, touching every nerve ending at once. Her dress caught on fire. Igor managed to smother the flames with an old burlap sack, and scolded her for her carelessness. He said that if she weren’t undead, the shock would have killed her.

Tonight, her body felt like it did in the laboratory all those years ago, but without the possibility of burning to Un-death. Now Gytha was toying with both of Maladicta’s breasts, making the nipples harden with her fingers. She swooped down on her and caught her left nipple between her tongue and teeth, jolting her back out of the haze of sensation with the roughness of the teeth and their vague threat of pain. Then, she sucked the nipple, pausing to brush the tip of her tongue over it again.

“You have nice, firm little tits, and I’m going to look after them and make sure you know what you’ve got,” Gytha said.

“Understood,” Maladicta moaned. She tried to gracefully and slowly slide her drawers down her thighs, but ended up dropping them around her ankles in one lust-drunk pull.  
Gytha thrust her fingers under Maladicta’s bushy mop of hair (she’d been meaning to trim or shave it, just to see what it was like, but was scared of accidentally amputating her clit or one of her labia in the process) and gently stroked a line across her sex. “Oh gods, you’re _dripping,_ ” she informed her. “That means we’ll have a lot of fun tonight.”


	4. Full

Maladicta wasn’t sure “fun” was the word to describe the things Gytha showed her how to do that night. Reading a good book was fun. Going on a long walk or having an interesting chat with Igor (keeping carefully out of the spittle range due to his obligatory lisp, of course) was fun. This was good, but it would be better described as “life-changing”. She’d groaned, squealed, and sobbed under the woman’s ministrations. She glowed inside when she’d practiced the same things on Gytha under her expert tutelage and Gytha had panted:

“Oh, fuck, Mal, you’ve got it. That’s it. You’re so good for me.” Maladicta savored the taste of Gytha on her tongue (sweaty, musky, and gloriously alive) as those hidden little pink lips clenched around her. The young vampire knew some things now. The wet, pink delight between her legs was no longer a mystery to her. She knew how to flick her tongue around a woman’s inner folds, returning to the clit after the teasing, brief flashes of stimulation grew too much and her lover craved something more. She was enthralled by Gytha’s soft breasts, large enough to pillow her head. Maladicta did imbibe a humans’ bodily fluids that night. That it wasn’t blood was of no consequence to her.

Best of all was the feeling of another body curled around her in her oversized crimson bed, warm arms kindly caging her, bringing her back to earth after she’d soared on her nerve endings for so long. She was exhausted, sweaty, a little sore, but very satisfied. She wished that the moment would last forever. Of course, it wouldn’t. Gytha would be gone in the morning. Before Maladicta fell asleep, she realized that her body hadn’t been craving orgasmic pleasure quite so much as another person touching her and taking her into their arms.

Maladicta was awakened early in the morning by the faint vibrations on the other side of the bed as Gytha disentangled herself from her, swung her legs over the side, and stretched. She was completely naked. When Gytha looked over her and smiled, Maladicta shut her eyes to a crack, feigning sleep. She wanted to look, but she didn’t want to be seen. Gytha retrieved her black dress, now dry, and pulled it over her perfect full form, the fabric hiding the delights she introduced Maladicta to last night. Gytha retrieved the bundle that held her bread and the Scumble, and picked up the kindling. She pulled out a longer stick from the center of the bundle, and Maladicta saw that it was not kindling at all. It was a broom. _Black dress. Broom. Witch._

Gytha carefully opened the window and squeezed herself through. It was a straight drop down, but that didn’t matter. Maladicta rushed to the window, and watched the witch fly away, dress rippling in the wind. She didn’t look back. Not once. Gytha had places to be. Her mother had warned her about witches, she recalled. They had wills of iron; impossible to enthrall. It was said that vampires who bit witches would absorb some of the witch’s mannerisms and become incapable of tasting blood again. She was lucky that Gytha did not know or care what she was, and that she hadn’t drank her blood. Upon second thought, she wished that she _had_ sipped Gytha’s blood, if it would have made her able to metabolize human food and free her from the guilt and hunger.

Maladicta got dressed and made her way down the staircase. She nearly ran into Mrs. Waldrip, and gasped. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Waldrip! Didn’t see you there…” The stodgy old housekeeper was the last person she wanted to see this morning.

“You didn’t do it.”, Mrs. Waldrip said. It was not a question. There was no ambiguity over what “it” meant.

“And?” Maladicta raised an eyebrow haughtily. “What concern of yours is that?” She schooled her features into neutrality. It wouldn’t do if a servant could guess that she’d not only failed to feed, but lost her virginity as well.

Mrs. Waldrip smiled sadly. “I’m glad you care. Your mother would call that softness, but it speaks well of you. But still, you must one day, if you are to stay here.”  
Maladicta glared at her. “Yes, I know. Take on the mantle of my mother, and all that. Become an adult. Right.”

Mrs. Waldrip pursed her thin lips and looked back at the girl. “If you are going to go off blood, you shouldn’t just start starving yourself. You should do your research and be careful. Have you ever heard of the Temperance League?”

Maladicta had. “Mother called them a bunch of weak traitors.”

“She would. But maybe they can help you.” Mrs. Waldrip reached into an apron pocket and pulled out a slim pamphlet. “I picked this up in town during one of the fairs. They had a stall.”

She took the pamphlet, and read. There were a few sickeningly maudlin slogans on it, but more importantly there were names. And addresses, too. Vampires like herself existed, she realized. She was not an aberration. She knew of the League’s existence, but they were nothing more than a far off abstract concept. Somewhere on this continent, other people lost sleep worrying about whether they had committed bestiality by choosing a particular lover (though this lover looked much the same as them, with all the relevant parts nearly identical), or if their usual eating habits were in fact cannibalism. Wonderfully, there was a way around it. She would get there someday.

Two weeks later, her mother returned from Uberwald. She sat down for tea and filled Maladicta’s ears with prattle about how Lady Deirdre von Kapfel had gotten her kitchen remodeled (why did a vampire care about a kitchen?) and the lamentable state of Borogravia’s couch roads, doubtlessly neglected in favor of funding wars. Maladicta kept her head down and pretended to listen.

After a few minutes of this, her mother stopped. “Mala? Are you alright?”

 _No!_ , Maladicta thought but did not say. The use of her childhood nickname nearly brought her to tears. She clenched her hands into fists.

“Do we need to talk? I realize that I left you angry at me.”

“S’not about that,” Maladicta said sulkily.

Her mother lowered her gaze until she met Maladicta’s eyes, and sighed. “Oh, my daughter. You used to rescue spiders from Mrs. Waldrip and put them outside. I should have known.”

“Yes, I’m a disappointment,” Maladicta burst out. Damn. She was crying. “What else is new?” She inspected the bottom of her teacup and the grain of wood on the table.

“Maladicta. Look at me.” She didn’t. She didn’t want her mother to see her like this.

 _”Look at me.”_ Helpless, she did. Tears pooled in her mother’s eyes, which were dark as open graves. “I am not disappointed. I am sad that you’re not thriving. There is a difference. If I could wave my hands and make all of it go away, I would.”

_What is “it”? What does she think is wrong with me?_

She fished around in her reticule, and produced a canister that rattled. With a pop, she poured a few red pills into the palm of her white hand. They looked like perfectly circular drops of blood. “Iron supplements. Since you’re not feeding norma--” she coughed and went on, “like I was expecting you to, anemia is a serious concern. I talked with Igor and Igor’s cousin Igor who is a physician, and they said these would help.”

Maladicta gazed at them, and then read the label. Interesting. “I’ll try it,” she said, voice unsteady. Her mother let the pills fall back into the container, and she took her daughter’s hand.

The pills helped her iron levels. They didn’t soothe her restlessness, though. Relief for that ailment of the soul was found much later in the form of a truly awful haircut self-inflicted with kitchen shears, and kissing the portrait of a lady much sterner, older, and less fetching than Gytha Ogg, though there was something about her stare. At least the Army uniforms didn’t require corsetry. Better yet, a bright young lad in her squad turned out to be Polly rather than Oliver.

One night, Polly had stood in a nightgown before a prince with only a stick, hit the prince’s guard with a stick and kicked the prince in the...socks, and told Maladicta (Mal now) that she wasn’t a damsel to be patronized. The ratty old nightgown fluttering in the night breeze and Polly’s resourceful defiance stirred something deep inside of her. Later, months after everything, Polly told her that she felt it too and Mal breathed a sigh of relief. In some ways, Polly was the polar opposite of Gytha. She would blush when Gytha would have laughed, was thin where Gytha had comforting rolls of flesh. But that was a function of the years of hunger and the iron fist of Nuggan. Bit by bit, Polly grew into her uniform, into the epaulettes she’d earned from her prowess at ordering people about.

Of course, it wasn’t perfect. They argued sometimes, about things that didn’t matter, and about things that did. Often, they would be apart for months at a time, the Army sending them to different regions. Polly had a career, and with that came a never-ending list of places to be. But that limitation made the slow garrison afternoons on which Mal could bend her girl over her shiny new Major’s (and, some years later, Colonel’s) desk and make her stifle her moans with a fist all the sweeter. However, her favorite times with Polly were the mornings they spent together on leave, when they woke up after a busy night and eased back into each other’s arms.

“Don’t you want to get coffee?”, Polly would ask. Mal considered this offer, then shook her head. She grinned and pecked her on the lips. Then, she took in Polly’s state of undress and cupped a hand over her soft mound. She was wet again.

“Nah. I’m good. I’ve got a source of moisture and energy right here.” She gently tapped Polly’s clit for emphasis. Polly squirmed.

“You have the worst pillow talk in all of Borogravia, Mal.” Her lover was still blushing like a schoolgirl, despite her age and experience. Early middle age suited Polly. She’d be a gorgeous old woman, too. After that...well, Mal didn’t want to think about it. She was just lucky that she’d gotten to watch this scrawny little Cheesemonger grow up, watch the lines of years well-lived form on her lovely face.

“Good thing that I won’t be talking much to get it,” Mal replied, and true to her word, she didn’t.


End file.
